 | CHAPTER XXXII.
A FAREWELL GLIMPSE. Haunted hearts |  |
32. CHAPTER XXXII.
A FAREWELL GLIMPSE.
We have taken the liberty to pry into the secrets,
probe the hearts, and sift the lives of the inmates of the
Rawle cottage for five years past. What forbids our
taking one more observation before bidding them farewell?
It is now about three weeks since George's return.
It is a cold, clear afternoon in January, — so cold that
the snow, which is spread a foot deep over the Jersey
meadows, is encrusted with a firm, icy surface, — so clear
that the polished crust shines like a silver mirror. But
it is warm as well as bright in doors, for George, an
hour ago, brought in a famous back-log and fore-stick,
and piled the dry wood on top of them in a workmanlike
manner, so that the fireplace is primed for a long
winter's night. It is the one leisure hour of the day,
between the early dinner and the equally primitive teatime,
when the kitchen is a model of neatness, when
there is nothing especial expected of any body, when
even the cat stretches herself more at her ease, and purrs
in the warm ashes which fringe the bed of glowing
embers. It is the hour when Hannah and Margery are
accustomed to take a serious and premeditated pinch
of snuff, when Hannah subsides into a nap and Margery
into a fit of meditation, under the influence of this
grateful little indulgence; when the tea-kettle, pushed
out to the end of the crane, ceases its hissing; when no
business is persevered in except on the part of the old
clock, which keeps up its ticking behind the door, and
of Angie's fingers, which, like those of the faithful time-piece,
are impelled by such a spirit of industry that
they are rarely known to be idle.
The monotonous regularity of this non-occupation or
semi-activity has been somewhat invaded since George's
return. Only the other day it was at this hour that
he resumed the unpacking of his sea-chest, and now,
again, to-day he has been claiming Angie's attention for
a half hour or more. They have not been disturbing
the old folks, however, for their employment has been
an exclusive and quiet one, though mutually satisfactory.
George has had the charts of his recent voyages spread
upon the floor (there was no table in the house large
enough), and he and Angie together have been tracing
his ship's course, by means of the delicate lines pricked
out with the point of a pin.
Nothing could in themselves be more void of interest
than these charts, blank white sheets, intersected by
lines of latitude and longitude, relieved only by here
But George, who read in the long, serpentine course
of his ship, traced by him from day to day, the history
of all those storms and lulls, head winds and
calms, by the baffling or braving of which he had
reached at last his desired haven, found in it a lively
interest. To Angie it was but a line of dots, to be sure;
but love can fill a space no larger than a pin's point
with visions as boundless as love itself; and Angie,
seeing in each scarce perceptible dot a day of George's
experience, felt, in thus recapitulating his voyages with
him, that they were living over again together months
and years of cruel separation.
So they have been very happy over the charts; but
even making, as they did, the most of it, it was a short-lived
enjoyment. The charts are done with, are rolled
up and placed upright in one corner, George is sitting
at a window amusing himself with a book, — an old
history of travels which he has found somewhere;
Angie has resumed her work at an opposite window, a
handkerchief I think it is which she is hemming, one
of those grass-cloth handkerchiefs, which people who go
to sea are so apt to bring home, — a full-sized handkerchief,
— so she must be hemming it for George himself.
It is a satisfaction to me, knowing him so well, to
believe that among all the rare articles he has brought
for other people, there is, at least, one trifling thing
destined for his own use.
But he interrupts her again. This time it is
George is of such a sympathetic nature that he never
can enjoy any thing alone; no, it is a print, a little
wood-cut which he has discovered, and which she must
see, for he crosses the room to show it to her. Now he
stands leaning over her shoulder, pointing out this and
that to her notice. “This is just the way they build
their houses in Surinam! — that must be a mangrove
tree; I've seen precisely such growing out there!” he
adds, by way of illustrating the pictures. “And look
here!” — turning the page, — “you must read that
description; this book is an account of travels in South
America, and I can assure you it's all true.” Then,
as she reads, interrupting herself frequently with exclamations
of interest or surprise, he confirms the text
in a low voice with, “O, the sail up that river is
delightful! — you will like it, I am sure; I was thinking
of you all the time I was there!” or “How I longed to
have you breathing that delicious climate he tells about;
it will do you a world of good; it's just what you
need, Angie!” which last significant hints of his anticipations
Angie does not hear, or pretends not to understand,
for she makes no response, but seems absorbed
in the book, so much so that George forbears to interrupt
her further until she shall have finished the passage.
Meanwhile Hannah had been sleeping soundly; Margery,
too, quite unobservant of the young people, had
been dreaming some pleasant day-dream or other, which
was none the less pleasant that it suddenly terminated
in a long drawn “Heigh-ho!”
“Hallo! What's that I hear?” exclaimed George,
turning towards her in glad surprise. “Why, mother,
that's as welcome to my ears as an old tune! I thought
I'd missed something. What's become of all the `heighhos'
and `ho-hums' that I've been used to from a
boy?”
“Dearie me! George,” responded Margery (George
smiling significantly as another of the old expressions
thus fell from her lips), I've had to smother my griefs
and swaller them of late. They come to the surface
now. That's all.”
“And what's the matter, then, mother?” he asked,
with mock seriousness, for it was easy enough for any
body to see that Margery was nowadays the embodiment
of content, as she had formerly been of woe.
“Alackaday! Nothing child. Only I was thinking
whether or no that pickle I made for the green ham
didn't want seein' to;” and rising, with alertness, the
rejuvenated old woman trotted off to the pantry, where
most of the work of the household was carried on.
“It does my heart good to see her,” commented
George, as having watched her brisk step through the
door-way he turned again towards Angie. “It's wonderful
how she's coming round. Why, she looks ten
years younger already!”
“She does,” returned Angie, in cordial assent, “and
feels younger, too;” an opinion which Angie proceeded to
illustrated by a comparison of Margery's former feebleness
and incapacity with her present activity and personal
her sister-in-law's senior by many years, and who is now
more than willing to sink into the repose of old age, fortunately
does not seem to begrudge her.
“They 'll not miss you so very much after all, Angie,”
continued George. “It would be vanity in you to
believe the contrary. We shall be back here again before
midsummer, and please God, find them well and
hearty as ever.”
To which Angie only responded by shaking her head
from side to side in the negative fashion, and bending
lower than ever over her work.
But George, meanwhile, was playfully trying to wrest
her work from her, expostulating against it as unnecessary,
and throwing out broad hints concerning a certain
piece of India muslin (one of his gifts), which it was
quite time for her to commence operations upon.
“You'll want it made up very soon, you know,” he
whispered. “You must wear it the day we send for the
dominie; and in Surinam half a dozen such dresses
won't be too many; they all wear white in Surinam.
I wonder what they'll say to you out there (with unmistakable
elation in his tone); I wonder how they'll
like you, my friend Harry, and the rest of them.”
“Not at all!” murmured Angie, “not at all. Don't
speak of it, George! It can't be. It mustn't be. I've
seen so many wretched days, the life, the spirit, is all
gone out of me. I never shall be bright or young again.
It might have been once, but not now.”
To which George simply said, “Nonsense!”
And then when she persisted, sighed, and let a tear
drop on her work, he snatched the work from her
hand, told her she was nervous, depressed; that he was
sure she must be ill; she needed fresh air and change of
scene. She must go to New York with him the next
day, see the fashions, and visit the landlady of the “Pipe
and Bowl,” who only yesterday was inquiring for her;
“and meantime,” he said, cheerily, putting his arms
round her waist, lifting her from her chair, and at the
same time giving her a hearty kiss (saucy fellow, he
made nothing of kissing her nowadays), “come, and
take a walk with me! It will do you good.”
“But I am serious, George,” sobbed Angie, trying,
though quite in vain, to evade both his petition and his
caress. “You know I love you; shall always love you;
but you must let me stay here with the old folks. It's
better so. Besides, I'm not worthy of you — you're so
good, and I — I — wronged you so. I don't feel, some
how, as if I deserved to be happy.”
“You think because you've been miserable so long
you're bound to be so always; and because I've had to
wait five years for my wife, I'm never to have her; and
because you've wronged me (though I don't allow that,
Angie; and if you love me, you'll never speak of it
again), I'm not to be righted at last. O Angie! you're
a silly girl, and your reasoning is absurd beyond any
thing. Come, get your things! I never saw any body
that needed the fresh air more than you do.”
This was not the first time that Angie had thus disparaged
herself, and tried to convince George of her
unworthiness to be his wife; possibly, it was not the
last. But things were changed since their old days of
courtship, when George's love shrank abashed at every
obstacle raised by Angie. The resolution, the confidence,
were all on his side now; and what argument
or raillery failed to accomplish, were brought about
through powers in which he had gained wonderful proficiency
during those years of suffering and banishment
which had developed and invigorated his manhood. But
Love's eloquence expresses itself in whispers, which it
would be meanness to overhear, treachery to make public,
and in looks that love only can interpret; so though
Angie's scruples, on the present occasion, were not silenced
by George's reasoning, the looks and words
of love that prevailed at last, and left the victory with
him, must be matters of suspicion, except so far as they
were revealed by the smiles and blushes, which, as she
left the room, in gentle and compliant mood, to prepare
for her walk, shone through her tears, and played over
her face in rainbows.
She returned equipped in cloak and hood, — a new
scarlet cloak, — Hannah's gift. Hannah, who had always
kept the purse, had, it seemed, a secret horde, and was
resolved that Angie, “our Angie,” as she called her,
should be fit to be seen, now that she went regularly to
church with the captain; and the faded hood was freshened
up, too, with wonderful art and boasted a bright
cherry lining to match the cloak.
With what mutual satisfaction they set forth on their
wintry excursion! How exultantly they breasted the clear
sharp wind, drawing in new life and exhilaration of
spirits at every breath! How daintily and cautiously
Angie trod the glistening snow-crust at first, and with
what a bold and elastic step at length, as she gradually
acquired confidence in her own sure-footedness, and realized
what a firm stay she possessed in the arm on which
she leaned! How strongly and tenderly George supported
the dear girl and guided her steps! With what joy
and pride he gazed upon her as she tripped lightly beside
him! And she was a pretty object, even for less partial
eyes than George's. The scarlet cloak and hood produced
such a gay and janty effect, sported on her graceful
figure, and contrasted with the spotless snow! Her
cheeks, still pale, and not quite so rounded as they had
once been, glowed with exercise and caught radiance from
the gorgeous clouds that fringed the western horizon, and
the saucy wind curled and rippled the jetty locks that
escaped coquettishly from her hood (it must be confessed,
though I whisper it between the bars of a parenthesis,
that a dash of the old coquetry, the French comme il
faut, had again crept into Angie's dress and air, though
her character was guiltless of its taint). I wonder if
George had ever detected any diminution in the beauty
which he had worshipped of yore. I'll warrant not. He
was not one to spy out flaws or detect imperfections in
the woman he loved. His heart was sure rather to
idealize its object. Worn, harassed, distressed, Angie
There was cause enough for it, Heaven knew.
The change, great as it was, had but proved a fresh claim
to his tenderness and sympathy, and since then, — why,
she was more beautiful than ever in his eyes.
Nor were his eyes so far wrong either. If love is often
deceived and blind, it is none the less certain that happiness
is a miraculous beautifier, and joy had day by day
been illumining, harmonizing, rejuvenating the form and
features of Angie until the once dashing and brilliant
traits of the girl were put to shame by the softer graces
of her purified and ripened womanhood. So George was
not so very far wrong, when in answer to Angie's protest
against some excessive adulation of his, on the ground
that she was too old and faded now to be cheated, as she
used to be, by flattery, he exclaimed, “Why, Angie, I
was just thinking that if you kept on improving at the
rate you have for the last five years, you'd be an angel
before your time.”
Yes, it really seemed a pity that these two had the
road all to themselves this winter afternoon, they were
such a handsome couple, such an ornament to the landscape.
George, so vigorous, well-formed, and manly,
Angie, so graceful, piquant and radiant, and both so animated
with the sentiment which is the soul of all beauty!
They did not think it a pity, however. All the world
could not have added to the happiness they had in one
another. A single presence more intrusive than that of
the little snowbirds that now and then hopped in their
from the ecstasy of pleasure with which, “the
world forgetting and by the world forgot,” they moved
with buoyant, almost dancing steps, over the surface of the
polished snow-crust, defying winter, and with a whole
ripe summer in their hearts.
They made a circuit of some three miles in their walk,
returning by the way of the tavern, where, according to
their intention at setting out, they stopped and went in.
A visit to the tavern was now, on their part, of daily
occurrence at least. What a sudden change of scene from
the bracing air and sunset glow without to the close
atmosphere and dark gloomy aspect of the tavern kitchen,
where, on their entrance Old Stein, restless and nervous,
was groping about, fumbling now and then at the drawers
of an old secretary and shivering with cold, for the fire
on the hearth had been suffered, perhaps encouraged, to
go out, and the solitary stick of wood had split into two
thin and blackened brands, which stood upright against
the andirons. George walked to the fireplace and
taking the tongs stirred the smouldering embers, relaid
the fuel and kindled a blaze, unrebuked of his uncle, who
stood vacantly looking on, and when the flame was lighted
crept up and spread his thin hands in front of it, with the
same satisfaction with which he would once have warmed
himself at somebody's else fire.
Angie, in the mean time, had proceeded directly up
stairs to a comfortable upper room, the door of which
stood ajar. She had no occasion to knock, — she was
on ceremony. An instant's pause at the threshold,
however, and an oblique cast of the head, told how
attentively, anxiously, she was listening to the deep,
hard-drawn breathing of some sufferer within; then,
instinctively unclasping her red cloak and throwing it,
as also her gay hood, over the baluster of the staircase
(such gay trappings were out of place here), the neat
figure, clad in sober brown, slid noiselessly, as was her
wont, into the sick room. She was welcomed by a thin,
imploring hand, a gesture of distress, and an “O
Angie!” that was more expressive than any complaint.
“You don't feel so well, do you, Polly?” she said,
in a sympathetic tone, as she lifted the sufferer's head,
and rearranged her pillow; “have you had your
drops?” and on Polly's making a sign in the negative,
Angie took bottle and spoon from the mantelpiece, and
administered the dose with the confidence of one to
whom the act was familiar. Then she sat down beside
the bed a while, noted and inquired pitifully concerning
each increased symptom of pain, and tried to soothe
and comfort the poor thing, who moaned like a fretful,
exhausted child. And when at last she had moaned
herself into an uneasy doze, Angie moved gently about
the room, prepared medicine and nourishment for the
night, and then, as Polly still slept, crept down stairs
to the kitchen. Here George was equally engaged in
an office of sympathy and benevolence, for Stein, with
chair drawn up close beside that of his nephew, was
him, and with an agonized expression was seeking his
aid and advice. This was not unusual. Frequently,
since George's return, he had been summoned to the
tavern to protect the feeble old man from the assaults
of his son, who, though broken and enfeebled by the
grossest intemperance, became, when fully inflamed by
liquor, intractable and dangerous, especially to his father,
against whom, on these occasions, he always seemed infuriated.
This danger and dread was averted for the
present by the agency of George, who, since Polly came
home to die, had found it more than ever important to dispose
of Peter, and secure the peace of the household, by consigning
him to the county jail, where he had often already
been temporarily committed on charges of drunkenness,
and where for the present he was confined. But for
George, Polly would have breathed out her life among outcasts,
possibly died of starvation. He had found her by
chance in some wretched haunt to which he had been
led with the benevolent purpose of seeking out and
rescuing some of his sailors. Any one else might have
striven in vain to win her back to the protection of home
and friends; but if there had ever been beside love
for her child one pure and unselfish sentiment to redeem
Polly's nature from its corrupting associations, it was an
admiring affection for her cousin George, an implicit
faith in his goodness. She was, just then, too subdued
to an unwonted docility, for her four year old babe, that
had only half blossomed into life, and that yesterday,
the torpor of death, had that very day been buried out
of her sight. So, indifferent as to what became of her
now, she had suffered him to lead her away. And the
encouragements he had held out to the lost creature, —
the promise of pardon, protection, care, and kindness, —
had been faithfully fulfilled. He had done for her all
that man could do, and Angie had done the rest.
But it was not of his children that Diedrich Stein was
mysteriously whispering to George. The burden of
the old man's thoughts was now, as it had ever been,
dollars and cents; yes, literally the burden; — in spite
of all his disappointments, all his shame, the bitterest
burden of all was his hoarded gold. Domestic sorrows,
the blighting of his fondest hopes, the debility of old
age, the approaching shadow of the grave, these had
doubtless brought him to his present pass; for Stein
had enjoyed his petty rule, had loved his children, had
clung to life, had feared to die. But he was insensible
to these things now; his mind had become vacant, except
on one point; he was petrified to this world's grief,
anxiety, disappointment, dread, and still there was one
burden which weighed upon him — the weight of his own
gold. O, strange retribution! That the craft, the greed,
the selfishness of a lifetime should end in this! That
all the motives, all the diplomacy, all the artifices of
a subtle mind, should merge into one solitary purpose,
and that purpose restitution. Yet so it was. Call it
superstition, call it morbid eccentricity, call it a heart
or follow after charity, and call it rather a conscience
awakened, a soul touched and taught of God, the
result of this misspent life was the simple effort to
atone. To recompense to every man his dues; to seek
out, often by long and toilsome effort, each unconscious
subject of double-dealing or fraud, and to transmit to
him through some safe and unsuspected channel his
exact rights, and no more (for Stein was miserly, even
in his acts of indemnity), now engrossed the only
unclouded remnant of the old man's faculties.
And George, the chief creditor, and destined to be the
natural heir of his uncle, was also the sole confidant and
abettor of that scheme of restitution to which it may well
be believed his honest nature lent itself with alacrity.
Thus the frequent conferences between him and Stein;
thus the many transactions in which they were mutually
engaged; and thus when Angie softly entered the room,
and laid her hand on George's shoulder to arrest his attention,
a nervous start on the part of Stein, an abrupt
jerking back of his chair, and mysterious gestures and
hints of secrecy directed towards his nephew.
“She's worse, George,” said Angie. “I shan't leave
her to-night.”
George looked up, interpreted the expression of her
face, said, approvingly, “That's right; I wouldn't;” then
added, “I shall stay too of course; you may want me.”
Angie thought not — said he had better go home, and
come over for her in the morning; but he was resolute,
night for Angie to spend alone, and neither Stein nor a
solitary woman servant, nearly as decrepit as himself,
could be counted any body. So he went back to the
cottage, gave notice of their intended absence, and
brought back a comfortable supper and some hot coffee
for his uncle and Angie, and the old blue mandarin, to
keep the latter comfortable during her long watch.
Then, when every thing was quiet for the night, he
took his station at the kitchen fire, and remained there,
broad awake and listening, until just before dawn, when
Angie called him.
“George,” she said, in a suppressed voice, “come!”
In an instant he was at the head of the staircase, whence
the voice proceeded. “She's going fast,” whispered
Angie. “She is talking — talking to her dead child. I
want you to hear her — it is so touching.”
She was rambling in her talk, and for the most part
incoherent; but now and then an expressive word, a connected
phrase, revealed the hopes, the yearnings, the
visions of a soul just vibrating between this world and
the next. Already in spirit she had crossed the boundary,
and in the dim distance saw the land where they
dwell of whom Christ has said that of such is the kingdom
of heaven. Often since the death of her child vague
intimations had dropped from her lips of a faith born of
ignorance but exalted by love, — a strange, unreasoning,
pathetic faith, — which promised her that she should some
day walk in white, hand in hand with the little one now
away, for the sake and by the power of her child transfigured,
her innocent one made immortal.
And this simple faith, this soul-assuring confidence,
was triumphant in her now. She did not see the
watchers by her bedside. Her glazed eyes were raised
upward in rapt vision, her thin, wasted arms outstretched
for the eager embrace. “My beauty! my
baby! my own!” she cried, “do you see me? do
you hear me? it's mother.” “An angel! — yes, an
angel!” now again she murmured; “the sweetest, the
dearest of them all! — no tears? — no cold? — no
hunger, darling? O, I'm so glad! Happy land! —
happy land! And I — I'm so tired — tired — tired — ”
and the tired voice died away. Then, with the energy of
a fresh hope, “They won't take baby, and not let mother
come too. O, no, not that — not that!” And once
more, in the fervor of a final appeal, “My precious!
my pet! my blessing! have you found a place for
mother? I'm coming — coming — com— ”
The arm dropped heavily. She was gone. Gone,
poor, untaught soul, to learn, we will trust, in some better
land, of a love stronger than a mother's, deeper than
death and the grave; gone to seek mercy by the power
and for the sake of him who gave himself a ransom for
the sins of many; gone to reap some share, perhaps, in
that redemption, which, greater than faith, greater than
love, is “the infinite charity of God.”
| CHAPTER XXXII.
A FAREWELL GLIMPSE. Haunted hearts | |